


Fast and Loose

by petit_moineau



Series: Partout [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Central Park, F/M, Literary References, M/M, Multi, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 17:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petit_moineau/pseuds/petit_moineau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow it’s right that Courfeyrac is the one who finds her.  He doesn’t threaten to break Montparnasse’s nose, like Feuilly or Bahorel.  He doesn’t insist on taking her to the hospital, like Joly.  He doesn’t scold her, like Enjolras or Grantaire.  He doesn’t try to psychoanalyze her decisions, like Combeferre, or placate her with pretty words, like Jehan.  He just sits.  She talks when she wants to.  He holds her when she needs it.  He does take her chin in his hand and tell her enough is enough.  After a small amount of stubborn crying and a lot of “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorrysorrysorry,” she agrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fast and Loose

She only dates people who encourage the worst and unhealthiest aspects of her personality, those that exploit the darkest parts of her.  She plays fast and loose and it’s rare that Les Amis see her bring the same guy around twice.  They unanimously agree they like her better when she’s single.  When taken, she drinks too much and is prone to disappearing for a few days at a time—including now.

“She’s a grown woman,” Enjolras insists, “she’s allowed to do what she wants, and if getting space from all of us for a few days is what she wants, who are we to tell her differently?”

Marius rolls his eyes.  “For Christ’s sake, Enjolras.  Not that you’re wrong, but I’ve known her since we were kids—she doesn’t exactly come from the best family.  Am I the only one who thinks that when she disappears for a few days, someone from her family has found her and is hurting her, or that there’s some kind of trouble?”

“You’re not the only one who cares about Éponine,” Bahorel says quietly, and Combeferre shoots him a pointed look with an arched eyebrow.

[Cosette]: Are your ears burning?  
[Éponine]: What do you mean?  
[Cosette]: The boys are gossiping about you.  Have you been taken by wolves?  
[Éponine]: Just one. ;)  
[Cosette]: When do we get to meet him?!  
[Éponine]: Tonight.  He’s really great, I promise.  Are you at the Corinth or the Musain?  
[Cosette]: Corinth!  It’s half-off wing night, duh. :)

Cosette sets down her phone with a grin.  “Ponine’s coming in tonight.  She’s met someone, and she says he’s really great!”

The men trade a grim look about Éponine’s frequently misapplied usage of the word ‘great.’

More than a few drinks later, she comes in with the gentleman in tow.  The boy is absolutely, undeniably good-looking and has the self-possession that indicates he knows it.  He’s dressed more like he’s going to a yacht club in Connecticut than to a somewhat questionable college bar.  His black hair is brushed back but falls attractively across his face, teasing his gray eyes.  He fills out his blue checkered button-down and tailored khakis perfectly, and Bossuet has half a mind to tell him not to wear such nice shoes in here next time unless he’s dying to get them filled with beer.  He knows from experience.

“I don’t like him,” Courfeyrac says decisively.

“Jealous,” Feuilly shoots back.

“No, I just don’t like the look of him.”

“He seems alright to me,” Joly adds.

“Courf has a point,” Grantaire studies the gentleman over the rim of his glass, “there’s something about him I don’t like, but I’m not sure what it is.  What about you, Enj?” He elbows Enjolras in the side.

Enjolras shakes himself from the furious scribbling in his notebook and looks up, scanning the crowd for Éponine and her new boyfriend.  Of course, by what he heard of the conversation, his friends were judging the guy on appearance alone, and Enjolras would need to engage him in conversation to make an honest opinion, but he shrugs in response and takes a swig of his Jack and ginger.  “I don’t see anything _wrong_ with him, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says, knowing that it’s not _really_ what they’re asking.

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes.  “Thank you, Mr. Obtuse.  But seriously, God knows what she sees in him.”

Bahorel rolls his eyes in return, chucking a bit of breadstick at Courfeyrac.  “Look, Casa-never, just because she said no to _you_ doesn’t mean that she has to be alone for the rest of her life.”

Ignoring his friends’ banter, Grantaire notices something with a practiced eye that perhaps someone else might have overlooked, but to him, this accessory stands out easily.  Despite the tight twists and turns she’d been making on the dance floor all night, she has never been without a drink.  More specifically, she has gone through _many_ drinks, and she isn’t exactly a lightweight.  Grantaire prefers to think of himself as an alcohol connoisseur if anything, and he can tell that Éponine has been exceptionally varied in her cocktail consumption.  He frowns at the peeling veneer on the table.

Jehan, usually the first to offer an opinion on anything, is the last to speak.  He, too, has been watching closely.  With his chin in one hand and Combeferre’s in the other, he purses his lips in concentration.  “Dorian Gray.”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow.  “…is a work of classic Gothic literature about a hedonistic dandy…?”

“Yes, yes, and Éponine’s new boyfriend reminds me of him.  The clothes, for one thing.  But—Courfeyrac’s jealousy notwithstanding—isn’t there something about him that kind of bothers you?  Something sort of shady, I don’t know.  Like he might do something illegal on the side, or something.”

Joly frays the edge of his napkin fretfully.  “If he’s Dorian Gray, I hope Éponine’s not that girl who killed herself over him.”

“Ponine’s been drinking a lot,” Grantaire pitches in.  “Even for her.  Like, rivaling old-me proportions.” He smiles when Enjolras unexpectedly presses a lingering kiss to his temple.

Courfeyrac winces for a number of reasons.  Firstly, he’s just noticed that indeed, Éponine is teetering a little in her heels, and her dress has slid up to just this side of indecent.  He likes a casual drink as much as any of them, but her tendencies toward Grantaire-ism—Les Amis’ secret name for emotion-induced self-destruction—has always bothered him.  And, of course, this entire night is a horrible reminder of how she turned him down.

The two of them had been reluctant to really address the way they’d met, or at least how the night had ended.  Courfeyrac was embarrassed, because although his behavior wasn’t really out of his usual habits, he genuinely liked Éponine and wanted to get to know her in a context that didn’t involve gratuitous (though mindblowingly good) sex.  Éponine was content to let the past rest, if Courfeyrac wasn’t going to bring it up.  She had known that he wasn’t going to be like a regular one-night stand because she liked him and his friends, and she wondered if discussing what had happened would put an awkward strain on their friendship.

All joking about her body, dancing ability, and job aside, Courfeyrac thinks he might legitimately be in love with her.  Sometimes.

So he told her.

It was really the worst thing she could have done, and she knew it a split second before it happened, but she laughed.  While other girls may have said But What About Our Friendship, she knows they’re always going to be friends.  What she does say is that she’s not sure if she feels the same way, doesn’t want to entangle anyone in her messy life, and is by nature afraid of monogamy.

So it only makes sense that she shows up with Dorian Gray.

Bossuet notices Courfeyrac’s stormy expression and pours a measure of whiskey into Courfeyrac’s glass.

Éponine, sweaty and sore-footed, pulls her boyfriend over to the group, though she leans against him once they stand still.  She’s grinning a little too widely, and she hopes it doesn’t show, but if she weren’t leaning against Montparnasse, she’d be liable to topple over.  “Friends, New Yorkers, countrymen, this is Montparnasse,” she says just a touch too loudly, showing him off like a game show host.

He smiles a bit tightly.  “A pleasure, I’m sure.”  He shifts his weight like he’d rather be somewhere else, but Éponine has one hand firmly latched to his arm and the other on the tabletop, so for the moment, he has no choice.

Enjolras, the most civil of all of them, is the first to speak.  “What do you do, Montparnasse?”

“I study accounting and management at Fordham,” he replies.  He has a lovely voice, sort of silky.

“Where did you meet our Éponine?” Combeferre asks, staring hard at Montparnasse over his glasses and hoping he’d catch the emphasis on ‘our _._ ’

He smirked.  “At work, of course,” he says coolly.  “Have you seen her?  I assure you that she’s quite… _talented.”_

Courfeyrac looks in serious danger of punching Montparnasse, and Bahorel is pushing him down into his seat.  To her credit, despite her somewhat intoxicated state and the fact that she normally treats her job matter-of-factly—it pays the bills, after all, if she remembers to pay them—Éponine looks positively mortified.  “Was that necessary?” she laughs nervously.

He turns his cool gaze to her.  “I don’t know,” he shrugs, “you’re the stripper, so you tell me.”

Éponine grits her teeth in anger.  She dances and sings in risqué clothing and plays the piano.  She doesn’t strip, and she makes sure of that.  Not wanting to start an argument in front of her friends, most of whom were openly glaring at Montparnasse, she pulls at his arm.  “Why don’t we get some more drinks?  Or perhaps a walk, as I think you’ve probably had one too many tonight.”  Negating her point at which of them needs sobering, she stumbles a little.  He trails after her, his expression somewhere between amused and indifferent.

“He’s definitely Dorian Gray,” Combeferre says once the door has shut on the pair.

“Does that mean Éponine is Sybil Vane?” Jehan asks, but he’s got a teasing smile.

Grantaire snorts so loudly even Enjolras looks up.  “Are you kidding?  She’d be the damn knife that ruined the painting.  It might take her a while, but she’ll see him for the bastard he is.”  For they all agree that the boy is an insufferable bastard.

\-----

Cosette's first true solo is three weeks later, and Eponine misses it.

“I don’t understand,” Marius says, fretting and angry, “she knew this was so important to Cosette!  How could she just miss it?”

Cosette smiles sadly, trying to excuse her friend.  “It’s okay, Marius; there will always be another concert.  I’ll bet she fell asleep or lost track of time at the museum.”

Enjolras snorts.  “She’s not _that_ scatterbrained.”

Courfeyrac frowns deeply and downs the rest of his whiskey and water.  Grantaire leans over to him.  “Something’s wrong,” he whispers, tickling Courfeyrac’s ear.

Courfeyrac shakes off a shiver; he’s never had a high tolerance for whispers.  “I know,” he replies, “she’d been excited about Cosette’s solo for weeks, and she would never miss it unless there was an emergency.”

Almost as if he’d read their minds, Combeferre adds, “Maybe something came up with her sister or brother?”

Musichetta shakes her head.  “Gavroche is covering the café for me.  I think Ponine said Azelma is in a shelter to get help for her addiction.”

Grantaire gives Courfeyrac a pointed—and wholly unnecessary—look.  “Guys, something is wrong,” Courfeyrac says, picking at the edge of his cup.  “You know she wouldn’t miss this concert unless something happened to _her.”_ He swallows painfully.  They all meet each other’s’ eyes.  Marius deflates, the anger sucked out of him, and Cosette’s eyes go wide as saucers.

“You don’t think”—Joly squeaks at the same time Feuilly says, “Surely not…”

Bossuet and Musichetta place soothing hands on Joly’s arms, and Bahorel cracks his knuckles with a grim smile.  “I’ll kill him.”

Enjolras holds up his hands, ever the diplomat.  “Guys, we don’t even know what happened, if anything.  Why don’t _some_ of us try calling or texting her, and we’ll see if she feels like answering.  People that know her well and know how to calm her in a crisis.”  Predictably, the entire lot pull out their phones to fire off texts and calls.  Cosette has a spare key and rushes over with Marius to see if she’s home.  Joly remembers the GPS-locating app he made all of them install, but either Éponine’s phone is off, or she’s disabled the app, because she makes no pings on the radar.  They split up to look for her in places she usually haunts, though most are closed for the night.

Eleven missed calls and twenty text messages later, with numb fingers, Éponine picks up her phone.

[Éponine]: Please.  
[Courfeyrac]: Where are you?  
[Éponine]: Balto.

Her hands are shaking too badly for her to do any better.  She slumps against the statue of the sled dog and holds her knees, crumpling in on herself.  She’s torn between the desire to bury her head in her knees and constantly look around just in case.

After some trial and error, Courfeyrac remembers the one time Éponine confessed her favorite movie growing up was about a sled dog, and that she liked to sit by his statue in Central Park to think.  He finds her there, hunched so small she blends in.  He approaches her from the front, hands held out in front of him, silently asking permission to touch her.  She’s like a feral animal, hair wild and standing on end, shaking violently, and he can see a nasty cut across her cheekbone and is sure there are plenty more.  It’s all he can do to keep from scooping her up, but he knows she needs reassurance.  They watch each other in the darkness, and she nods.

She stands on her own jerkily.  Her skirt is torn, and her blouse is missing several buttons.  It’s unevenly matched with what few buttons are left.  Bruises the shape of fingertips dot her neck and arms.  She bites her lip and tries to smile.  “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Somehow it’s right that Courfeyrac is the one who finds her.  He doesn’t threaten to break Montparnasse’s nose, like Feuilly or Bahorel.  He doesn’t insist on taking her to the hospital, like Joly.  He doesn’t scold her, like Enjolras or Grantaire.  He doesn’t try to psychoanalyze her decisions, like Combeferre, or placate her with pretty words, like Jehan.  He just sits.  She talks when she wants to.  He holds her when she needs it.  He does take her chin in his hand and tell her enough is enough.  After a small amount of stubborn crying and a lot of “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorrysorrysorry,” she agrees.

[Enjolras]: She’s not in her apartment, but someone has been here recently.  
[Grantaire]: Her sister hasn’t seen her.  
[Musichetta]: She hasn’t been to the café.  
[Combeferre]: Or the Corinth.  
[Courfeyrac]: Sorry.  Everyone calm down and go home.  I found her.  She’s safe.  
[Cosette]: OMG! Is she okay?  
[Courfeyrac]: Ask in the morning.

Éponine stands barefooted and swallowed up in one of Courfeyrac’s flannel shirts, perusing his massive collection of CDs.  Somehow he manages to have at least one CD by every one of their favorite bands or singers, which is no small feat, since none of them have similar tastes.  He steps blinking into the sunlight just as she slips the CD into the stereo.  The Decemberists trickle through the speakers and he rubs his curly hair sleepily.  “Good morning,” he yawns.

She smiles with a twinge of sadness.  “Hi.”  She shuffles her feet and looks down, feeling uncharacteristically awkward.  She hums along to California One, cracking the window a little and smelling the spring air.  Gnawing her lip, desperate to talk about anything other than what was pushing the air around them like a weight, she looks over her shoulder.  “I’ll bet California is lovely this time of year.”

He snaps awake then, arms crossed over his bare chest.  “Can we talk?”  Her face falls for a split second, then grows hard, defensive, angry.  He mentally imagines her as a cat with claws unsheathed.  They’re going to talk whether she really wants to or not, but he gestures to the couch and seats himself on one end.  She twists her lips in irritation and sinks down on the other end, eyebrow raised.

“Why do you do shit like this, Éponine?”  Her eyes grow wide, but he misjudges the reason.  “And do not insult _anyone_ and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Who gave _you_ permission to judge me?  You’re not my dad!”

“Shit, don’t you think I know that?  But clearly someone needs to parent you, because sometimes you don’t seem to do a good job of it.”  He sets his jaw angrily for what he thinks will probably be a fight to the death.

He’s not prepared for the slap.

She leans forward on her arms, eyes glittering with rage.  “Do you know something, Courfeyrac?  I’ve been on my own my _entire life._ So I dance half-naked in a club and I drink too much and I date people that are bad for me; can you really fucking blame me?  Who in their right mind would want to be with me?  I’m _lucky,_ okay? I’m _lucky_ that anyone wants to be with me.”  Her chest heaves and she bites down hard on her bottom lip, staining it red.

He stares in surprise.  He knows her family life is horrible and that she basically raised herself and her brother—Azelma was a bit of a lost cause.  “That’s what this is about?” he asks quietly.  “You think nobody wants you, so you just go with people who do?”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, sinking back into the cushions.  “Of course not.  I have standards.”

“Yes, some standards you have…”

“Shut up.”

“But that’s what it is, isn’t it?  You’re scared, Éponine.”  She glares at him.  “You are!  But are you scared of being alone…or are you scared of someone loving you?”

“Neither, obviously, since I’ve been on my own since I was seventeen.”  His face is stony.  “What the fuck do you want me to say, Courf?  That I need to be with a boy at all times?  That I systematically reject other people who could love me?”

“You don’t have to say either.  Your actions tell me all I need to know.”

She shakes her head angrily, determined not to cry.  She does _not_ cry, ever.  “What would you have me do, if you were in my place?”

He doesn’t answer.  Slowly, so slowly the motion is almost unnoticeable, he reaches out his hand until their fingertips brush together.  Their fingers lace together, and she looks first at their intertwined hands and then at him, his eyes, pleading and hopeful.  “Accept that you are loved…by so many people, Ép.  And we won’t stop, even if you hate us, even if you do stupid shit, even if you—Christ—date people who…do _that—_ but don’t you dare.”  He smiles wryly.  “Get used to it.  And stand up.”  He hauls her to her feet, drags her to the stereo, and punches a few buttons.

She looks confused, but a subtle blush settles over her cheeks.  He takes her by the waist and hand, waltzing her around to California One.  “You’re probably right,” he says, “I’m sure California is beautiful this time of year and every other time.”

She bites her lip again, smiling slightly.  “We’ll go sometime.”

“Definitely.”

“We’ll make breakfast first.”

“Of course.  Strawberry waffles?”

“If you insist.  Coffee with cream?”

“If you’re nice.  Call everyone you know and tell them you’re right as rain?”

“If I must.”

He meets her gold-flecked eyes and subconsciously pulls her a little closer.  The weight is crushing him.  _I love you I love you I love you I love you._ But he can’t.  Not yet.  Not today, at least.  Maybe not ever, but he’d rather not think about that.  He kisses the tip of her nose instead.  “Make the coffee, you wench, or I’ll withhold the waffles.”

“I’ll tell everyone what a tyrant you are!” she laughs and dances her way into the kitchen, starting the coffee grinder.

He rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  He thinks about Jehan’s Dorian Gray metaphor again.  _Never liked that damn book._

Maybe they were more like Harry and Sally.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who was lost/never had the privilege (or misfortune, as it were) of reading The Picture of Dorian Gray in school, Dorian Gray is one of those people who plays fast and loose in life and literally only does things that please him. Meanwhile, this portrait of him grows increasingly uglier and more twisted as his life grows uglier and more twisted. Sibyl Vane is a beautiful but impoverished actress who falls hopelessly in love with him, and it doesn't end very well. If you haven't seen When Harry Met Sally, you really need to.  
> Les Amis are just great. I can see them being incredibly protective of the females in their lives.  
> Thank you all SO MUCH for your support and love. Kisses to all. Hopefully I'll have more time to write this week; I had a brutal week of exams last week. I'm feeling some Jehan next...


End file.
